KENILWORTH.
I always longed for ruins. When a child,
Living where rifted rocks were plentiful,
I fain would climb amid their slippery steeps,
Shaping them into battlement, and shaft,
And long-drawn corridor, and dungeon-keep,
And haunted hall. Not but our own fresh groves
And lofty forests were all well enough,
But Fancy gadded after other things,
And hinted that a cloistered niche, or roof
Of some grey abbey, with its ivy robe,
Would be a vast improvement. So, I thought
To build a ruin; and have lain awake,
Thinking what stones and sticks I might command,
And how I best could range them, in some nook
Of field or garden. But the years sped on,
And then my castles in the air came down
So fast, and fell in such fantastic forms
At every step, that I was satisfied,
And never built a ruin.
When at last,
I roamed among the wrecks of Kenilworth,
